Every month, it circles back.
That same dread.
That same math that doesn’t math.
Income: not enough.
Expenses: too much.
Hope: rationed like rice in a famine.

I’ve become fluent in the language of survival —
how to stretch a ringgit like it’s elastic,
how to smile while suffocating,
how to pretend I’m okay just enough to function.

But inside?
I am breaking in ways that don’t make sound.

Some days, I stare at my pets.
These innocent creatures I chose to love.
I should protect them.
But sometimes, I resent them—
for eating while I skip meals,
for needing care when I can barely care for myself.
Then I hate myself for even thinking it.

Other days, I curse that loan.
That rope I tied around my neck disguised as opportunity.
It funded dreams that never bloomed,
and now it just echoes in every collector’s call,
every reminder that I owe the world for daring to try.

And sometimes, I curse the world itself.
For being born into poverty.
For growing up with hope that turned out to be a scam.
For watching others succeed while I carry bricks uphill, barefoot, in silence.
They say money isn’t everything.
Funny how the people who say that already have it.

I’ve asked myself:
Why was I born just to suffer like this?
Why does the world always demand more than I have to give?
What’s the point of waking up if all I do is drown in debt and doubt and days that never change?

And yes—
some nights, the idea of ending it feels like mercy.
Like silence after years of noise.
Like rest I never earned but always craved.

But I’m still here.

And if I’m still here,
then this pain must mean something.
Maybe not yet.
Maybe not tomorrow.
But maybe this isn’t the end.
Maybe it’s the part in the story where the character realizes:
The world won’t save me.
So I become dangerous.

Not to hurt others.
But to disrupt the system.
To spit truth in its face.
To make sure my voice echoes in every boardroom, every blog, every back alley where people like me cry quietly.

I’m not here to inspire.
I’m here to testify.

That we exist.
That we suffer.
That we are not lazy, or stupid, or weak.
That we are buried under weight that would snap the spine of anyone who inherited comfort.

And even if I fall—
let my fall be recorded.
Let someone read these words and say:
“I feel that too.”

And maybe that’s enough.
Not healing.
But understanding.
A crack of light in the coffin of this system.

So go ahead, world.
Keep your system.
Keep your fake motivation and your recycled success quotes.

I don’t need to win by your rules.

I just need to write.
To breathe.
To exist loudly enough that the silence can’t eat me alive.

And maybe—just maybe—
that’s how I start to claw my way out.

I didn’t write this.

This is purely written by AI.

Because I don’t have the strength anymore.

Not to string words.
Not to fake hope.
Not to pretend that I’m okay.

But if these words sound like something you’ve felt too—then maybe it doesn’t matter who wrote them.
Maybe it just matters that they exist.

That someone finally said it.
That someone named the weight.

So here it is.
The cry I can’t voice.
The rage—I can’t scream.
The truth I can’t carry alone.

Let it live here—
for me,
for you,
for everyone who’s still surviving in silence.